Far in the distance, church bells
announce midday. The
sun glows like a halo on
your shoulder. I squint into
the blinding glare: the
trees grow wings of light. Below,
your steps and mine. Footprints on
a mud path. Slowly
unfurling, our shadows sway.
Up in the barren branches,
life throbs in little
feathered bosoms. The sacred
spirit of the world has been
moulded into song-
birds. You eavesdrop as they chirp.
Stirred by the greens, the reds, the
brightness, woodpeckers
peck for pulse in dying trees.
Into their beady eyes you
stare and they return
your gaze. Rustling underfoot.
Writer Between Worlds 